I'll Save You
by Xescay
Summary: A challenge from England to prove that he's not a scaredy-cat turns into something so much more when he invites Canada to go with him. Between the vampires and the heroism, will he have time to tell Canada his true feelings?


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Hetalia doesn't belong to me. You know that.

* * *

America shivered as he stook before the imposing walls, the grey stones, covered with lush green, seemingly closing in on him. The ghosts that resided within, the mysterious figure England had told him about that afternoon seemed to be lurking behind every little jutting part of rock, hiding within every little spot of darkness, waiting to pop out, and tear his soul asunder, as their demonic nature demanded.

Hugging his arms around his trembling figure, he ventured a step closer to the locked gates, which he now had the key to, England having given it to him with a daring smirk and a less than encouraging 'You're not a hero if you can't brave our most haunted place – the Highgate Cemetery'. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself a step forward… Only to squeal and leap several steps back. Thrusting a hand deep into his pocket, he flipped open his phone and speed-dialled the first person on his contact list.

England never said the hero couldn't have a sidekick, he reasoned.

* * *

Canada fumbled blindly in the dark, his hand reaching out, and contacting many things along the way, none of which included his phone, which was keeping him away from his must-needed sleep.

"Look, America, I'm trying to sleep. Good night," he said upon seeing the caller ID. How many times had the blonde called him up in the middle of the night, on a whim, because he'd decided to watch some amateur horror film that wasn't half as scary as he made it seem.

"Wait!" there was that vulnerability in the usually cocky voice that always shone through in his moments of terror. That mild tremor that shook his words in the slightest little way, like a breeze blowing an oak that despite its strength, shook in the face of the wind. "Please, Canada… I'm at Highgate Cemetery. I can't lose to England. Not this time."

That whine, that fear that made him seem so endearing and childishly innocent was what made Canada falter. He'd always been weak to the younger man's insufferable stubbornness, especially when it meant that he would cling to the older like a child holding onto a security blanket, grabbing him in a way that made him feel that the other _cared_, that the other _loved._

"…Fine. Then we're going to bed."

There was a relieved 'thank you' on the other end, before Canada snapped his phone shut and pulled his jacket off the chair. He really needed to find time to talk some sense into the idiot, he decided.

* * *

His heart was thumping, and he could feel his blood rushing to his head, abandoning the rest of his body. There was a shiver running through his body, shaking him ever so slightly, in the way that a leaf trembles when a slight wind passes it. Rubbing his hands up and down his arms in a futile attempt to warm them up – and trying to ignore the burning warmth that he could feel adorning his cheeks.

There was a rustle behind him, and he turned around, his eyes wide with fear, his heart thudding in his chest. "Wh-wh-who's there?" his voice was tinged with fear, laced with the terror that ran through his veins, filling him with a burning urge to run.

"It's me," a quiet voice, almost silent against the roaring wind that filled the silence. The dark night enveloped the two of them, friends, brothers, siblings closer than anybody else.

"Canada?" there was a sigh in his voice, a sigh of relief that the Canadian boy chose to ignore. Opening his mouth, the elder began his little tirade in an attempt to quell the younger man's enthusiasm before this all went a bit too far. "Canada! Hurry up! We're going in!"

There was nothing he could do but sigh and allow himself to be dragged along, into the dark that seemed to become blacker with each step they took into the cemetery.

* * *

An ominous wind ran through the cemetery, playing havoc with the men's hair. It spun around them, swirling round and round, calling them, beckoning them, summoning them and daring them to go deeper, to venture deeper into the darkness. Shaking as Alfred neared one of the more innovative tombstones – a large marble piano – his eyes took in the intricate detail.

"It looks pretty cool, huh, Canada?" he turned around.

The howling wind served as his only reply.

* * *

"Canada!" his cry sounded through the darkness, ringing clear amongst the tangle of trees and grass. His feet stumbled upon the ground, his shoelaces tripping him up every now and then, but even so, he continued, brushing the tears away from the corners of his eyes furiously as he continued into the twilight.

Somewhere behind him, there was the sound of leaves being crushed beneath heavy shoes. America turned around, his vision blurry from tears and panic. A dark figure stood before him, eyes crimson and shining like a midnight sun, shining amongst the tentacles of Stygian gloom. He wore a heavy cloak, hiding most of his figure from view. In his hand was a long silver of steel, polished and shined to the point of seeming like a handful of moonlight. Sneering as he pressed it into the pale skin, America felt his blood run cold and his fury grow in his stomach.

"Canada!"

The taller figure grinned, its teeth sharp, white and almost glowing in the darkness. Its lips were pulled back, revealing long, almost fish-like teeth that dripped with saliva and blood and flesh. It stalked closer, its blade pressed firmly to the side of the limp Canadian's neck. A stench of rotting flesh surrounded it, and yet, America felt drawn to it, his eyes wide with horrified fascination.

"Catch me if you can," it whispered into the teenager's ear, its stinking breath chilling the blonde youth to his bones. It was filled with such hatred, such malice.

And then it was gone.

* * *

Suddenly, he was running, running, running away from something that he couldn't see and couldn't feel. He could hear it, the heavy panting of a creature chasing him through the dark wilderness. The stench of rotting flesh and festering wounds filled his nostrils, the odour making his stomach turn. Fighting the urge to heave his after-dinner-before-desert meal on the ground, he closed his eyes and willed his legs to take him away.

But something was pulling him back. A voice, fainter than a summer breeze, and a bond stronger than the best steel. It called him, forcing him to turn and face the monster that chased him. Was it fear that made him run, or was it something deeper, something darker that he wanted to escape from?

"Canada!" his voice was swept away by the inescapable darkness that surrounded him, but still he shouted, ignoring the burning bitterness from the bile in his throat and the constant nagging instinct to run and hide. "Canada!" He shouted again and again, almost challenging the dark to make him stop. He shouted until his throat was raw, and shouted still.

"America!" a scream, so much like his own, yet so different at the same time…

* * *

It was like waking from a dream, like escaping the clutches of a terrible nightmare, only to realise that the nightmare had been reality. America found himself fighting the strands, the tendrils of hate and murk that bound him and forced him to lay prone on the ground. He struggled against the urge to run, and the urge to retch at the stench that filled the air.

"Canada! Canada, I'm coming!"

It was a light that he could never reach for, the golden fruit that he would never be able to make his own. Perfection at its best, hidden in a flawed being to make it inconspicuous to all who looked upon it.

It was the love of his life.

"Canada!" his scream was not one of love. Nor was it one of hate. It was one of the basest, most simplistic and raw human emotion. It was something conjured from instinct and fear.

The beast grabbed the blonde youth again, its body materialising from the miasma that filled the air. Baring its teeth – yellowed, covered in blood and flesh, and pointed like an enlarged needle – it leaned forth, and sank its fangs into the pale flesh of Canada's neck.

Something raw and base escaped America's throat as he rushed to elder's side, a stick in his hands. Striking the monstrous vampire upside the head, he hit it repeatedly, almost rhythmically. Finally, with a grunt, he thrust it into its eye, eliciting a screech. Holding the released man in his arms, he panted, watching the creature with almost predator-like eyes.

"A-America?" the timid voice that rang so clearly through the engulfing darkness spoke. Looking down at violet orbs, he closed his eyes and grinned – hide everything, hide everything! – and said:

"And the hero saves his girl!"

Somewhere behind them, the creature withered and faded away with the coming of the dawn…

* * *

A month had passed since then, and nothing had changed – not America's obsession with proving to England that he wasn't a scaredy cat, not England's perception of America being one, and most definitely not Canada's relationship with America.

Sighing, he flipped his phone shut for the tenth time that minute. Why had he started to expect text messages and calls from the American, he could not comprehend. Was it that he expected the younger of them to call him out of the blue and make him feel needed, wanted, loved…

Perhaps it was so.

His violet eyes widened when the phone began buzzing in his hands. Looking down, he noticed that he had a message from America, reading:

'Highgate Cemetery, tonight at 8'

Sighing as he shook his head in despair, he looked at the clock – 7.30 – and pulled on a coat.

* * *

It was like the night they'd entered the place – dark and ominous – but something was so very much different. Was it that a black cat had crossed his path, changing his perception on everything? He couldn't really tell. Something whispered to him – whispering to him secrets and things previously unspoken.

"Canada!" the younger of the duo snapped the elder from his daydream. He looked smart and polished, wearing a suit. Canada smiled softly – it was rare for the American to wear one; he could count the times with his fingers.

"So, uh, Canada…" there was that uncertainty in his voice again. The waver in his voice that made him want to wrap him up in his arms, hold him tight, and whisper sweet nothings into his ear.

"So, uh, I was wondering," his voice trailed off, but he forced himself to continue. "Will you go out with me?"

And suddenly, America found himself wrapped up in Canada's arms, being held tight to the elder's chest.

"Yes!"

* * *

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